


The Bloggers

by Squidlymuffin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Pocket!John, Tiny John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidlymuffin/pseuds/Squidlymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly AU based on the story of the Borrowers. John is one of<br/>thousands of tiny people who live in people's walls and blog about them. He<br/>has just moved into 221B Baker Street and is unprepared for what awaits him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I uploaded this on Fanfiction.net, But I know that there are a lot of people who only use AO3 now. So here for your enjoyment are the first 8 chapters. Work in progress.

John Watson was not your average Fellow, The first sign of this being that he was a total of six inches tall and he lived in the walls of houses and flats, the owners of which knew nothing of his presence Every now and then they would spot traces of his existence and he would have to move out. So he found himself never getting too attached to an abode. He was in fact one out of thousands of little people like him, all of whom existed for one purpose, blogging.

Unbeknownst to the big people there was a tiny network of blogs about every aspect of their lives existing right under their own roofs. The purpose of the blogs was to study the lives, weaknesses, strengths, and personalities of the larger dominant creatures. They had a mysterious leader, the name and face of who no blogger John had ever met had seen. All John knew was that it was their purpose to keep these records, he never questioned if it was right or wrong. He just did. Another reason for the blogging was the pure fascination that the bloggers had with the big people. The network itself spanned over the entire world, undetectable radio waves and routers allowed them to communicate and share the information they had gathered.

John was currently standing outside the door of his potential new home, His old abode has been suspected of having a rodent infestation. It was a result of John's own carelessness, he had left a smattering of crumbs from a hunk of bread he had taken, lying outside one of the holes he used to move between the house and the walls. It had been dark and he hadn't noticed, which had led to him packing his bag (a doctor's satchel stolen from a dollhouse) and moving out. He had hitched a ride in the undercarriage of a taxi and followed the kindly looking older woman to her door.

So here he was standing on the stoop outside the door of 221B Bakers street preparing to take the next step in his life as a blogger. He took a deep breath and unhooked his makeshift grappling hook from his belt swinging it expertly to hook the mail slot clambering up it and swinging through. The first thing he checked for when he entered was 3 notches cut into the wood of the door. This signified that the house was already inhabited. The marks were nowhere in sight. John sighed and put his hands on his hips.

"I wonder what kind of people live here." He asked himself quietly, completely unaware of what a surprise he was in for.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx

The flat seemed suitable enough. There was a very accommodating space in the walls that would make a very comfortable place for him to set up his new livings. It was easily accessible as well which would make it easy for him to get in and out quickly, a rare and very useful quality for the home of a Blogger. He set down his bag and took out his few belongings. A miniature tablet that was the Blogger's version of a computer on which he did his very important work, a few pairs of clean clothes, a lantern, and a rather scruffy looking pillow and blanket. Bloggers only brought necessities with them. And John had never really felt a sense of ownership. There were times when he was younger when he had become quite attached to things he had picked up, or homes he had been particularly fond of that had been destroyed or he had been forced to leave.

Dusting off his hands John stood and looked around. The space was compact enough that we wouldn't feel lonely, but big enough that he would be able to set up comfortably. Before he began blogging he would have to map out the flat and gather supplies. One of the most frightening and dangerous things that someone who was six inches tall could do was mapping out a new living space. Venturing into the flat itself If he were seen, god forbid if he were seen. Usually the Big People would wave a Blogger spotting away, it was just an insect, or a flash of light through a window, they saw but they never thought enough to observe. But John had once met a Blogger from California who had snuck onto a plane and come over to England because his entire family had been killed by a Big person who had been more than sadistic. And he knew that staying hidden was important.

A door slammed somewhere in the flat marking the return of someone new, John had heard the older woman humming from the kitchen and smelt the tea brewing.

"Oh hello Sherlock dear," her kindly voice rang out, "I hope your cases are going well. I've made you a cup of tea, you've been so busy lately."

John expected to hear the voice of an elderly man, perhaps the husband of the older woman. But he was startled to hear a deep baritone that easily belonged to a man in his thirties.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I won't be staying long, I just needed to run some data."

The entrance John had taken from the main house into the wall was located just above the refrigerator in the kitchen, a location known well to be a safe place for observation without being noticed, and food gathering. There was a knot in the wood there that had been easy to push in and it was hidden behind a pile of books that seemed untouched so it seemed he was pretty secure to that extent. John slipped down the boards that lead up from the knot, and slid out careful behind the books to get a good look at the subjects of his blogging.

"And Mrs. Hudson," the baritone voice was saying, "I might not be back until late tonight, could you make sure that my cultures stay at a steady temperature, there's a love."

"I'm not your housekeeper Sherlock," she said a tone of irritation in her voice sweetened by an obvious maternal fondness for the man. Something to add to the blog already John mused peering over the edge of the fridge. The woman was elderly but not ancient, but she looked able and kind. The man however was a sight to behold. He was tall and lanky, with high cheekbones and dark curly hair, probably about thirty or so. John noted these things as he noticed them; a description was the first part of a Blogger's job. The other features were striking but unremarkable, Big people came in all shapes and sizes, but it was the man's eyes that drew him, scared him even. Never in all his life as a Blogger had John ever seen such an intense intelligence, a knowing. Right then and there he should have turned, packed up his bags and left. Intelligence meant danger. But he knew he was going to stay, his own curiosity was peaked and the pumping of his heart said that the challenge before him was one he would meet with open arms.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx  
John Watson

Current Residence 221B Baker Street London

Began residence at a new flat today. Resident seems to be a rather intriguing character, features: Male, Tall, skinny, rather curly black hair, very pale, greyish eyes, defined cheekbones. Should be a very interesting subject to blog about, he seems carry a great deal of intelligence. Flat seems a bit cluttered, but not with your usual home décor. I observed a Big person's skull on the mantle, and the choice of wallpaper is gaudy. There also seem to be a smiley face painted onto one wall, the reason for which I have yet to discover.

The Flat consists of a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The flat is occupied soley by the man, name Sherlock Holmes. His occupation is unclear, he said he was working on a "case" and then worked with cultures on a lab set up at the kitchen counter. He seems to have some sort of connection to the police, but he doesn't own a uniform and, the flat is a mess of papers, mold specimens, and other odd items that I will report further on later. He seems to have a close relationship with the landlady, she cares for him almost maternally, but I know for a fact they are not related. My next two ventures will be to further observe and record on his personality and quirks. And to explore at night to see what I can uncover from the parts of the flat I can't explore during the waking hours.

That's all I have to report for the time being. I hope to uncover more about my intriguing new subject as time goes on. Signing off for now. –JW

John set down his tablet and stretched. He felt a bit sheepish for not having very much to report on his first day, but it wasn't very often that a Blogger was blessed with such a unique subject. He had lived in the homes of families, teachers, college students, and even a taxidermist once, but even the taxidermist had been fairly dull, his house had smelled like formaldehyde and the Spaghetti-o's that he ate for every meal. John had been driven out by the smell, and by the constant fear that he would be caught and turned into a tiny stuffed blogger, something that did not appeal to him particularly.

A clock chimed downstairs signaling the arrival of midnight. His subject would probably be asleep by now, surely he had been tired out by the solid amount of running around he had evidently been doing all day. John strapped his grappling hood to his pants and tightened his belt. His lantern would be too bulky to carry around this time and could slow him down if he needed to run. Luckily most Bloggers had pretty good eyesight, their rods and cones had evolved to accommodate the light and dark that they moved so swiftly between.

He slipped through the knot in the wall and secured his hook on the side of the fridge giving it a yank. After he was sure that it was secure he slid expertly down onto the counter flicking his wrist to dislodge the hook and ducking behind a dusty jar of pasta. The television flickered ominously in the living room, a further warning for John to be cautious. Once he had decided that the coast was indeed clear he ventured further along the counter. He flinched when he realized that the plate he was standing next to contained a rather large number of slowly dissolving human fingers. Resisting the urge to cry out he took a deep breath and regained his composure. Noted: Subject takes part in odd scientific experiments. There was a breadbox on the far side of the kitchen that was cracked open, John could easily slip inside and procure some sustenance, which sounded good about now. John hadn't eaten since that morning when he had finished the last of his rations from the last house.

Taking a deep breath he skittered across the counter and hooked a cabinet swinging across to the bread box. It had obviously been baked recently, by the landlady no doubt. And the smell had his mouth watering. Moving to a new home was exhausting and it was very important that he spend the first night gathering supplies, namely food. Proper sleeping arrangements and makeshift furniture was accumulated over time. For now he just needed to survive. He crawled forward through the crack in the box shoving a handful of bread into his mouth before filling a small cloth sack he carried. Once the sack was full he crawled back out and prepared to swing back over. That is until a large dark shape whisked past the counter. John scrambled back into the breadbox heart pounding as he peered out at the shape of the very much awake Sherlock Holmes who seemed to have decided that midnight was a good time to conduct an experiment. He hadn't seen John, but he was checking the fingers on the counter and showed little sign of moving.

John was shaking slightly; his fear was mostly fueled by the thought of having to move again if he were, discovered, and perhaps becoming an experiment. He wasn't afraid of death, just of having to move, especially when he had just found such a wonderful place. But despite his fears his eyes were transfixed on Sherlock's nimble hands. The man was scribbling down notes, and adding chemicals to the experiment before him so fluidly that it looked like it was as easy as breathing. It was incredible, and for the moment John just sat there and watched.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx 

Minutes passed, and then an hour. Sherlock had spent a good deal of it muttering things to himself. John had gathered a great deal of useful information about the man's habits and personal traits. But John was getting tired and as fascinating as Sherlock was there was only so much interest that could be drawn from watching someone prodding severed fingers. Sherlock hadn't moved from the spot in front the counter in the whole hour he had been there and John was seriously considering just making a break for it. The lights were out but for a tiny spotlight pointed directly at the object of the Big person's experiments. John doubted the man would notice if he crept across the counter and onto the floor. There was almost certainly another entrance to the wall somewhere in the house. And it would be better than sitting in a breadbox that could be opened at any time.

John nodded to himself, his mind made up. He would have to be very careful, but he was positive he could make a discrete escape. It was a bit easier to go unnoticed if one was six inches tall, he told himself and took a deep breath and crawled back through the crack in the breadbox and slipping behind a jumbled box of cutlery that smelled like it has been used for everything but eating with. His heart was pounding in his ears. There was something intensely appealing about the danger of the job, a mix of anxiety and adrenaline, the possibilities of being caught and the relief that came with not being discovered.

A clattering sound made John start and press himself even closer to the wooden box a cold sweat creeping up his spine. There was only about a foot in big people's measurements between himself and the end of the counter. Unfortunately, that was a lot of distance for short legs to traverse and there was absolutely no cover. Peering around the box he observed that the bigger man had knocked over a tray of scalpels and was bent over retrieving them, cursing silently. This was John's chance if any to escape. Counting to three in his head he sucked in a breath before sprinting towards the edge of the counter and simultaneously reaching for his grappling hook. Which he suddenly realized did not seem to be attached to his person. Damn, he must not have unhooked it from the shelf. He realized his situation was even worse, seeing as he could not slow down and the edge of the counter was fast approaching.

At the last minute he managed to wheel to the right tumbling into an open drawer of dusty petri dishes and scraps of paper on which were scrawled incoherent notes. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow. How loud had his tumble been? Would the other man have heard, or was he too busy with the project on the table. John was too scared to move. Outside of the drawer everything had gone silent. There were no more shuffles, or scribbling of a pen on paper. The air was heavy with the sounds of John's own breath, which was inaudible to Big people anyways due to his size, but it didn't help the situation in his head much. His heart nearly stopped when footsteps began to work their way slowly towards the drawer.

A thin pale hand stained visibly with chemicals crept into the drawer and John's mind went into overdrive, he scuffled back as fast as his body would let him until he was pressed against the very back of the drawer. The fingers crept through the drawer brushing gently over John's torso in the process. He bit back a whimper of fear. Dammit, he would never get used to this Job. The fingers landed on a tube of some unknown substance that was letting off a bitter corrosive odor, even with its stopper in place. The tube was grasped and the hand was withdrawn and John was left panting to catch his breath. His vision was swimming. He managed to stand up. Never in his time as a Blogger had he ever been touched by a Big person before. He had had calls that were as close as this one many a time, but never before had he ever made contact. It wouldn't deter his work. But he was having trouble standing. Was it because Sherlock was a Big person, or something else.

As John caught his breath Sherlock shuffled about outside the drawer and then spoke to himself.

"That should do it for this tonight, I'll check again tomorrow morning." Then the sound of fading footsteps and the soft sound of a violin began to filter in from the living room. Never had John run faster to get back to his hole behind the fridge , He didn't even bother looking for his grappling hook, he just ran and leapt across surfaces, taking the long way back. When he found himself once again safe in his sanctuary in the wall he curled up in his old blanket and cried. He had learned a lot while hiding in the breadbox, but blogging would wait until tomorrow.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx 

After the breadbox incident John played it extra safe. He dared not venture into the house itself at all and instead ventured through the walls uncovering and mapping out every tiny pinhole that he could use to peek into the house without having to pass into the rooms themselves. In this safe way he had been able to gather all sorts of interesting facts about his subject. He had learned that Sherlock, surname Holmes, was in fact a consulting detective. The only consulting detective in the world as he so frequently stressed to the people who called him. He was even more of an entertaining subject than John had first expected. The ever changing experiments that frequented the kitchen counters were revealed to be mere activities to keep the man's brilliant mind busy and at work. Some people ran to keep themselves in shape, some people ate healthy, Sherlock Holmes on the other hand microwaved eyeballs.

John had been able to note the detective's more normal hobbies as well, for example, he had learned that Sherlock was a man who loved to read, he would spend hours lounging about in his armchair, or on the couch, reading textbooks and leaflets. He also played the violin beautifully. John had found a cluster of peepholes in the wall of the living room that looked suspiciously like bullet holes. Though these John had been able to watch Sherlock in his natural Habitat. It felt almost inappropriate to watch Sherlock play. He would play when people visited the flat, but he never played around them the way he played when he was alone, dipping and swaying to the music, biting his lip with every crescendo, an bowing with every decrescendo. It was quite beautiful to watch, but it was also frightening. He noticed that Sherlock rarely ate, and he knew extremely well at this point that he didn't sleep much. But these were only facts, details, reasons, explanations, would have to wait until he found the courage to enter the flat again.

Luckily for him, John's grappling hook had been knocked to the floor while Sherlock had been pacing round the kitchen. The Big person hadn't seen it…yet. And John had perceived that Sherlock was most certainly not an idiot and was in fact one of the most perceptive people John had ever seen. But then again, it was a wonder that Sherlock could find anything in the flat. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's housekeeper….wait. No, his landlady would come in once or twice a day to attempt to tidy. She would usually get fed up after about half an hour and leave, or run out gagging if one of Sherlock's experiments decided to go wrong.

Sherlock, despite his many hobbies, would grow bored very easily. One moment he'd be slung over the couch with a folder of casework, the next he'd be flinging it across the room and pacing around the kitchen or taking up his violin.

It was the morning of the fourth day after John had narrowly escaped discovery. He had been awoken by the sound of arguing issuing from the other side of the wall, in the flat. He winced, and stretched. His muscles were screaming from four days of sleeping on a hard surface, as he had not had the opportunity or peace of mind to venture into the flat to steal a sock or something softer to ease his pain.

"What in the…" he sighed blearily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Ambling down the knothole for the first time since he had run back into it, he peered through. A middle aged man was standing at the counter talking loudly to a very disgruntled Sherlock.

"Sherlock, we really need you on this one. I realize it's easy, but not for us."

"Hardly worth my time, "

"Sherlock, Please."

"…"

"Sherlock"

"Oh all right, Lestrade please grab my coat, It'll keep me busy if anything."

And with that the two men swept from the house footsteps disappearing down the stairs to the streets below. John was already at attention. He had been given a golden opportunity. The bread that he had snuck from the kitchen had lasted him three days, and he hadn't eaten in about 48 hours. He crouched for a few moments more to make sure that there were no returning footsteps. And then he made his move. Sliding blithely down the side of the fridge, he would have to take the long way around again, John found his way across the counter and back to the breadbox. He wasted no time in filling his side bag with bread, not even stopping to eat any. He wouldn't make the same mistakes again, time was limited.

John's cheeks were flushed with adrenaline. Food, check, this bread should last him a while. Now to find something to comfort his back. He had injured his leg a few years back and although it was healed, the hard surface had not been kind, and the stress was causing a flare up. But that was going to be remedied easily enough. He just needed a sock, or even an old doily would do. And from his position on the counter he could see a large number of things that wouldn't be missed from the flat and would make splendid bedding.

Getting to the floor would be difficult without his grappling hook, but it would be doable, and slightly safer seeing as he was alone in the flat. He had to stay on his guard at all times, there was no knowing when the detective would return. But from the sounds of it the business he had left on was rather urgent. And that meant that John could have all kinds of time to gather supplies.

In the daylight John had been able to determine that there was a series of drawer handles that made quite a handy ladder down to the tiles that made up the floor of the flat. First things first, John needed to retrieve his grappling hook, it would make it much easier to get back to the wall if he needed, and it would be no help to him if Sherlock found it. His peace of mind settled a bit once it was hooked into its proper place on his belt.

'Now for the bedding,' he thought to himself turning to survey the floor. From the counter he had seen a folded up paper towel that had likely fluttered to the floor. It didn't look like something anyone would miss, and the promise of a good night's sleep was enough for John to not really care.

From the looks of the flat itself Sherlock wouldn't notice if things went missing. Even the man's strong powers of observation would likely prove useless in this flat John mused. With much effort he further folded the paper towel and tucked it under his arm. It wasn't too heavy, but it proved difficult to scale the counter with such a wonky package.

When he made it to the top he was panting, noting that he certainly wasn't as young as he used to be. The return to the hole in the wall was a relief. Proof that he could make a successful trip. And it had taken, only about fifteen minutes according to his tablet.

'One more trip,' he thought to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. One thing he really needed was water. There was a place in the wall where filthy water dripped from a pipe. He had managed to strain it through one of his sacks to make it somewhat drinkable, but it would make him sick if he didn't get fresh water. In his belongings there were 3 bottles that would last him 3 days at a time. They were heavy and bulky, but they were a necessity. Strapping them to his back John strode, with more confidence than he'd had in days out and down the fridge for the second time that day.

The best place to get water, he decided, would be the sink in the bathroom. It was located only just down the hall and would make it harder for Sherlock to find him unless he beelined for the toilet when he got back. And if John's observations of his subject from the past few days proved true, Sherlock wouldn't.

It was a relief to have his grappling hook back. It was so much easier and more comfortable to hook it onto the counter and scale down it. It felt natural and safer than jumping over shelves.

When John reached the tile again he took up a brisk stride, his leg wouldn't like it much if he ran, but it would take him at least 5 minutes in Blogger time to reach the bathroom.

John took time to take in the scenery around him once more as he walked. God this place was fascinating. The wallpaper that rested behind the couch was garish, and there was really a sea of papers everywhere. Books upon books were stacked on tables and petri dishes were precariously perched in various places.

Sherlock's well played and valued violin sat perched on the detective's armchair. John chanced a peek up at the mantle where the human skull sat. He had seen Sherlock talk to it before, it was something that had made John's heart pang a little, although he didn't know why. It was one of the first rules of being a Blogger to never become empathetic with a Big person. Empathy leads to trust, and trust leads to curiosity, which killed the cat…..or got the Blogger fed to the cat. But John couldn't help but feel the tug at his heart. Sherlock was obviously lonely. John could tell that after only a few days of living there. If anyone understood lonely it was a Blogger.

John had been alone on and off since he had come of age to be a Blogger and left home. He had occasionally stayed with other Bloggers in passing, but he never stayed. And it was a lonely life indeed. 'I should get a skull of my own,' he chuckled to himself. By this point he had reached the bathroom door.

Luckily for John, there was a gap under the door just big enough for him to squeeze under. The bathroom was just as cluttered as the rest of the house John noted unable to help his lips quirking up a little at the sides. The bathroom was a room he hadn't seen yet. It was quite cozy. There was a bathtub, a sink , and a toilet, and tucked into a corner there was a hamper overflowing with silk shirts. A dressing gown adorned a hook on the door, and John broke into a grin when he saw a rubber duck that seemed to be wearing a pirate hat sitting on the side of the tub. 'Human after all eh, Sherlock Holmes.' He thought. The sink was slippery and John thanked God for the treads on his loafers.

"Ugh." John brought a hand to his nose. There was something festering in the sink. He should have known that the bathroom wouldn't be free of experiments. They were everywhere else for Gods sake. It wouldn't affect the water however, and that was the most important thing to John at the moment. He was able to easily hook onto the sink tap and turn it a little, just enough to let it run without disturbing the…growth squirming below.

Once the bottles were filled John couldn't help but take a moment to cup out his hands and rub water over his grubby face. When one lived inside of a wall, one tended to get a bit dirty. With a sigh John strapped the now full bottles onto his back. Perhaps another day he could risk sneaking out to get cleaned up properly. But today was not that day.

He turned to clamber down the sink only to fall backwards into it in shock. Staring down at him, from under a forest of black curls were the wide intelligent eyes of non-other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

 

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx  
There is a sensation that people feel when they are facing what might very well be their death. Time itself slows down, and the senses are heightened to the point where rushing blood is the only sound that can be heard.

This was very much what John was feeling at this moment. He had yet to even notice the pain spiking through his elbows, on which he had landed after sliding down the slick edges of the sink. He seems to have forgotten how to breathe, and to make matters worse every attempt his body was doing to calm him down was failing horribly. In all his years as a Blogger he had never, until a couple of days ago, even come close to actually being spotted. He had been careful this time even. But somehow it had just gone wrong. And now it was staring him in the face.

His head was reeling. When had Sherlock come back? Shouldn't John have heard him open the door? Why is this happening to me of all people? I should run, get out of here.

But John was frozen on the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the curious, slightly stunned, blue orbs that were peering at him from out of that impossibly pale face.

"You're bleeding."

It took John a moment to register that Sherlock had spoken.

"S-sorry?" he sputtered, the situation was still so surreal.

"Ah, so you do speak." John shook his head, still trying to clear it. The Big person's face barley even twitched. It was almost infuriating how little affect the situation was having on the detective, who was currently leaning over the sink to peer at the little man perched in the depths of it. His eyes were telling a different story however, darting over John over and over, obviously trying to place some puzzle piece that wouldn't fit. "Your hand," Sherlock continued, leaning a little closer, much to John's horror. "It's bleeding."

Reluctantly, John tore his eyes from Sherlock's to peer at his palm. And immediately wished he hadn't. It seemed he had cut himself on the edge of his grappling hook when he had fallen, and while the wound wasn't deep, it was bleeding quite profusely.

"D-damn," John winced, throwing a nervous glance the Big person, and upon realizing that he wasn't in any immediate danger, he reached into his pocket to pull out a strip of cloth. He kept them on his person just in case he might need them. And in this case they came in handy as a makeshift bandage. Taking one end of the fabric between his teeth, he tied it tightly around the wound. When he looked up again he jumped. Sherlock had pulled out a pocket magnifier and was watching his every move with great earnest. John felt an odd spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, the big person would be content to observe him in his natural environment, and not pin him down and dissect him, or put him up for display like a bug collector. Maybe, he wouldn't end up decaying in a petri dish after all. And then he could get back to his hole in the wall, pack up and leave. Maybe go live in a nice old folks home, where they wouldn't bother him.

Gingerly, he began to stand, using the edge of the foul smelling petri dish to his right to pull himself upright. This was a big mistake, he soon realized. The stress of the situation as well as the fall had rendered his bad leg quite wobbly, and definitely not in condition to support weight. And he certainly hadn't counted on it buckling as he stood. But even more unexpected, were the long thin fingers that darted down to stabilize him.

The Blogger found himself overtaken with a strong urge to push the fingers away. Being touched was definitely something he had not expected. Bile rose up in his throat. He could practically feel the Big Person's curiosity in the digits, a tingling to explore and learn about John.

The one hand not supporting John's trembling figure, was still clutching the pocket magnifier.

Silence fell between them. Sherlock remained the picture of composure, not showing an inkling of discomfort peering through the magnifier as if John was some sort of rare butterfly. John on the other hand was willing himself as hard as possible to disappear. John was brave; it was a Blogger's job to be brave. But when a "what if" became a reality, it was a bit hard to think on your feet, especially if you could hardly stand on them. He had managed to take a few deep breaths, forcing oxygen to his brain, when suddenly without warning, the fingers supporting his elbows shifted, and he found himself splayed out on the pale palm of the detective, steady spidery fingers surrounding him, and then they were moving through the flat. John had never been one for motion and his stomach lurched. It was quite lucky that he hadn't eaten in a day, or he would have been sick. But in the shock he found his voice.

"PUT ME DOWN." Sherlock stopped, and peered down at John, who was shaking rather hard.

"My apologies," he murmured, before setting him down carefully next to the skull on the mantle.

"Quite interesting, your vocal chords shouldn't produce such a volume for your size. " his eyes were flickering with interest. "My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." John paused still unsure of what to do.

"John," he said after a hesitation "John Watson, Blogger." Sherlock's lips quirked in an awkward attempt at a genuine smile and he extended an index finger.

"Pleased to meet you John, " Unsure for the second time that week of what he was getting himself into he reached out a hand, steady despite his racing heart. And they shook.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx

John often found himself in sticky situations. He had once narrowly missed getting his head removed by a mousetrap. And he had once fallen into a shoe and nearly been crushed when a Big Person had decided that it was time to slide their foot into it, luckily for John the shoe had been quite old and had a large hole in the toe through which he was able to escape without being seen. When one was six inches tall, one learned that fear was a sensation that was experienced frequently by a Blogger.

Big people could be cruel, especially when they didn't understand something. And the sight of a person who could fit into the palm of their hand was often enough for them to question their sanity. John knew of Bloggers whose family had been fed to cats, or had been boiled alive, or stepped on by accident. But he had never in his entire life, heard of a Blogger shaking hands, or hand and finger in this case, with a Big Person. But here he was, shaking hands with Sherlock Holmes as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They had shared proper introductions even.

This was Sherlock Holmes however, and if John had learned anything about his subject in his short time residing within his walls. He had learned that one NEVER knew what to expect with this man. Perhaps Sherlock shared proper introductions with all of his experiments before he popped them in the microwave. There had been signs of mice that may have been living in the wall at some point in the past. But there were no traces of them now. And if a Big Person left out poison it would have left an acrid odor in the passages of the wall. John suspected that the rodents suffered a worse fate.

He also didn't particularly like the way that Sherlock was looking at him. There was a gleam in his eye that spoke of a puzzle to solve. In the end John was just a cure for Sherlock's boredom, and it would likely lead to his demise, or if he would sneak away it would at least mean an emergency move to another house, which would be a shame really, because underneath the shock and fear that John felt coursing through his body, he really did find Sherlock Holmes fascinating.

Now he was faced with two choices. He could make a run for it. He did still have his grappling hook and could attempt a getaway. Which Sherlock may or may not be anticipating, or he could stay and see what Sherlock would do. Maybe the detective was actually being genuine, sociopaths could be genuine right? Before he could make a decision the detective spoke.

"At this point, I imagine you are trying to deduce whether or not I am going to kill you…" John blinked. Sherlock obviously noticed and his lips did their awkward quirk again. "I'm right aren't I, I was really hoping you'd be a bit of a challenge, being quite different from anything I've seen before. But you seem to think like we do. Well not like I do, no one thinks like I do, but like the majority of the human race." John squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, still not quite used to the concept of being spoken to by a Big Person.

"Er, sorry, I think like, what exactly?"

"To put it simply, you're stupid, but don't worry most people are. I can see you rationalizing the situation. I can tell that you have been living in my walls by the dust on your jacket, behind the fridge if I am correct." He was grinning at the look of horror on John's face. "I'm sure you have observed enough of me to know that I suffer from ennui, of course I would know dust from around my own house John, really. I also know that you have recently been living in the country judging by the dirt I saw on the bottom of your shoes , recently too. And before that you had spent time in the Middle East, Afghanistan probably which would be where you obtained the fabric for those sacks you are using, you likely stayed on an Army base which is where you learned to tie the knot you have used on your grappling hook. Am I correct?" At this point John's look of horror had morphed into slack jawed shock. His previous sentiments completely forgotten.

"Every…every word. Incredible, that was…..wow. Brilliant." John leaned against the skull to support himself. Sherlock looked incredibly pleased and a little bit shocked.

"Really? You think so? I was only asking for the sake of confirming what I already know. But you really thought It was good? That's not what people usually say."

"What do… people, usually say…if I may ask?" John inquired, his head was swimming a little, in both awe and because he had forgotten to breathe for part of the time that Sherlock had been talking.

"Well, they usually tell me to 'Piss off…" Sherlock trailed off a bit cocking his head to one side to examine John again. But the look in his eye was different this time. It was a bit more genuine, more human. "You know…I like you. You are…different. Well obviously you are different. Perhaps the word I am looking for is refreshing. John Watson, would you consider staying with me here? As an invited guest? I know that you wouldn't be much of a help around the house, but I could use a…refreshing mind to give me a hand on some of my cases, what do you say?"

John was in shock. This was a scenario that he had not played through in his head. He had to rationalize. Staying would mean that he would be able to provide a very detailed report about his subject, an inside view that was rare for a Blogger. But if he declined, Sherlock might kill him. Or worse, reveal his existence. Before he made a choice he had to clarify the one thing that was nagging at the back of his head.

"So…you aren't going to kill me then."

"He better not." A new voice issued from behind Sherlock's head. The detective stiffened, obviously uncomfortable with the new arrival. "He is one of my most valuable assets Sherlock, if he is to reside with you then you must treat him with the upmost care and keep…him…secret…." The detective turned, giving John a clear view of the newcomer. Standing in the doorway of the living room was a very well dressed man holding an Umbrella. "Mycroft Holmes, very good to meet you John. "

John had at this point given up on his life ever being normal again.

"Sorry…how do you know me?" The man's lip's did a similar quirk to Sherlock's. They were obviously related.

"Why you blog for me of course, can I get you a cup of tea…or…a thimble?" And for the umpteenth time that day, John's knees crumpled.

XxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXXx

It took a thimbleful of tea and a drop of something stronger to get John in a state where he was able to partake in somewhat reasonable conversation with the two big people who were currently towering over him. Mycroft had lifted him carefully from the mantle. Mycroft had forced Sherlock to promise to refrain from touching John directly unless John himself gave permission. So John had been gently lifted to the coffee table on the surface of a rather dusty book that was smeared with an odd gelatin like substance. John couldn't say he was surprised. There was very little in the flat that he found surprising anymore.

When he was comfortably settled with his legs dangling over the edge of the book staring cautiously up at the two men towering above him it all came out in a rush.

"How do you know about me?

"Mr. Watson the answers will come in due-"

"No, I think I've been through-"

"John-"

"NO, please. Mr. Holmes. I've been discovered…all my secrets are out."

Mycroft Holmes put a hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut before settling his fingers on the handle of his umbrella.

"Mr. Watson. I do owe you an explanation. And it will all come out in due time. But for now I need to explain what needs to happen. My Brother has discovered you, which is probably the best possible scenario that could have occurred when it comes to all secrets being out. What I can say about myself is that I have an important role in the protection of the Blogger community. And you, John, have stumbled right into the middle of something bigger than you imagined." He paused for a moment. John was listening intently, still a little pale. He was fiddling with his thimble. "I think it would be best if…for now you stayed here with my brother. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair and steepled his fingers underneath his chin, it was quite obvious to John that the Big person was deeply underwhelmed by the situation, lucky him.

Mycroft shot a look at his less than attentive brother before returning his gaze to John.

"As I was saying it would be a great help to me if you were to stay with my brother here, Keep an eye on each other if you will. Sherlock needs more friends than just his skull over there-"

"I beg your pardon," Sherlock snapped forward in his seat, "I work perfectly well without companionship, better even."

"Be that as it may Sherlock, John has been discovered and needs a protector."

"I can take care of myself!" John's outburst shocked them both into silence. "I've been doing it since I was a child, I don't need a protector! And," he began to turn a little red, "I've been watching Sherlock and he seems quite brilliant on his own , I wouldn't want to interrupt…"

Sherlock's expression has changed to something unreadable. "You think I'm brilliant?" He asked flatly, cocking his head and arching an elegant eyebrow. He was leaning too close again, studying John curiously as if somehow he was some strange contraption he couldn't open, some book he couldn't understand.

"Yes," John stared back this time, just as curious.

"No one's ever said I was brilliant…why?" his eyes were suddenly insistent.

"Sorry?"

"Why do you think I'm brilliant?" John paused but Mycroft's eyes were willing him to answer.

"Er…well I watched you work, when you were solving something. It's beautiful really, fascinating, incredible. You just get this look on your face when you figure something out. And the way you can read people…it's just…it's brilliant." He finished somewhat breathlessly.

There was a heavy pause and John wasn't sure if he was about to get killed, eaten, or kissed.

"Mycroft would you please let yourself out."

"But Sherlock please you need to-"

"Mycroft, out, I have things I need to discuss with my new flat mate." A wave of relief washed over the older man's face.

"Thank you Sherlock I knew that you-"

"Mycroft, the door."

"Oh all right! Very well, pleased finally meet you John Watson; please stay patient with my brother here. "And with that he dramatically swept from the room, leaving John clutching his empty thimble and staring at the man who would either become a great friend or his ultimate demise. Either way there was no turning back now.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter I am going to be going on a bit of a hiatus( I know I update slowly anyways). I have found a Beta and she is going to help me edit and fill in some things in the earlier chapters. Once that is done I'll be updating much more frequently and with longer chapters. Thank you so much to everyone who has been offering me support and enjoying this fic so far. I plan to see it out until the end! Much love. -M

It was an odd adjustment for John, being able to walk around the flat as he chose, he could sit in the kitchen window with a thimbleful of tea in the morning if he wanted to without a care.  He still tended to stay in his usual hiding places during the day out of habit, and several times he had nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock walked past him in plain sight.  And then he would remember that his cover had been blown and it wouldn’t matter if Sherlock saw him doing jumping jacks.

                Today Sherlock was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter peering into his microscope and muttering under his breath. The stool was too tall for hi, and his lanky frame was hunched at an odd angle. Various pages of scrap paper filled with barely legible scribbles were scattered all over the place, a few of them fluttered to the floor carried by a breeze from the cracked window.  Sherlock didn’t even bat an eyelash and continued his work unfazed.

                John sat nearby on a pile of books, typing furiously on his blogging tablet and casting weary glances at his new…friend? Acquaintance? Enemy? He wasn’t quite sure which category Sherlock Holmes fell into, but he was definitely one of the strangest people that John had ever met.     

                Even though it seemed that Sherlock bore no ill will towards John he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of living with someone else, and someone only six inches tall no less.  John had narrowly avoided being sat on, and almost tumbled out the window once when Sherlock decided to thrust the windows open to dispel smoke while John was enjoying his thimbleful of tea on the sill. 

                                Each instance had ended with Sherlock carefully lifting him over to the table and telling him to be more careful, which seemed to be his way of saying he was sorry. It took some getting used to but John was beginning to think that even with Sherlock Holmes’s shortcomings, of which there were many, there couldn’t have been a better big person to discover him.  While anyone else would be shipping John off to a zoo or a lab for some sort of ungodly testing, Sherlock seemed more or less over the novelty of having a tiny person living in his home and was completely preoccupied with his research.  John smiled and went back to his blogging.

 

                “What?” John looked up, Sherlock was looking at him with a curious expression.

                “Pardon?”

                “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I am just grateful that you haven’t squished me, or sent me off to a lab or anything like that.” Sherlock smirked a little and leaned back in to peer through his microscope

“Why on earth would I do that, Mycroft is annoying as it is, imagine what he would be like if I inconvenienced him in any way….well….any way that doesn’t benefit my work.” He leaned back again. “You should have seen him the last time I borrowed one of his identification cards to break into a government facility for a case. He was livid, needless to say I solved the case….of course I didn’t even need to break into the facility for that, I just wanted to annoy Mycroft.” He laughed, a startling sound from a man who seemed so stoic, which set John laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Sherlock was grinning when he hunched back over his work.  And the flat feel silent once again.

                Approximately twenty minutes later Sherlock’s phone went off.

                “John, could you get that for me?” Sherlock hadn’t even looked up.

                “Me? But…”      

                “It’s just over at the end of the table, just go read it to me.” John gave Sherlock a look and had half a mind to tell him to reach the extra foot to grab the darn thing, but in the end he stood and walked over to the beeping device and unlocked it with a tap of his foot.

                “It says it’s from someone named Lestrade, he says he needs your…” Sherlock was up and throwing on his long black coat before John had even finished speaking. ”Help….” Sherlock was suddenly full of a bubbling childish energy, he was beaming and rushing around picking up small bits and bobs from around the flat and thrusting them into his pockets. The phone beeped again. “He says there was a body found in a dumpster, but that there is something odd about it.” Sherlock spun around and snatched the phone up from the table and began to text back furiously.

“Oi” John had tumbled onto his rear and got gingerly to his feet rubbing his sore buttocks.

Sherlock barely seemed to notice.  Just from the look on his face one might have thought that Christmas had come early.  Without another word he swept out the door in a dramatic flurry of black wool and pale skin.

                John was left standing on the counter completely bewildered.  Sherlock was clearly off on some great adventure while John was stuck on the counter probably never allowed to venture outside ever again.  Great, and his tumble had triggered the faint and ever familiar ache in his leg.  He tried to take a step towards where he had been sitting previously and stumbled. “Damn my leg!!,” he roared in frustration.  It had taken ages for him to get used to walking without the pain.  It was all psychological of course. And it made itself known ever so often when he was exposed to stress. And that was quite often when you were only six inches tall.

A couple moments later the door burst open again.

                “John!!” Sherlock stood there breathless and rosy cheeked. “How would you feel about an adventure eh? Feel like coming with me? I could use someone with an eye like yours.” John’s heartbeat soared. An adventure? With Sherlock? Something new, and exciting, and potentially dangerous. Did he dare?

                “God yes,” he breathed. Sherlock smiled and gingerly held out a palm for John to climb into.  He did so with a sort of hesitant fervor. Sherlock’s pale fingers closed around him protectively before transporting him gently onto his shoulder in a place where he could easily cling to the coarse wool of his coat. And this time when he swept out the door, John was with him.

 


End file.
